‘90s Thrillers #001: Basic Instinct
It is my supposition that the thriller is the most perfect and purely cinematic of genres. While other formats can work just as well on TV (drama, comedy), books (horror, sci-fi), or comics (comics), the thriller is tailor made for a nerve wrangling two hours of content. A good thriller should keep its audience in its thrall without let up. While the odd telly thriller has done its job well - 24, for example - the greater need to ebb and flow dulls the pulse-quickening effects. It is also my supposition that the ‘90s was the last golden age for original, mid-budget ideas. You can still find them, but in the increasingly risk-averse landscape of modern Hollywood, the emphasis is on finding the next source of IP that can be mined for megabucks (YA novels, then Marvel, now apparently toys).
To really dig into the genre in one of its heydays, I’ve assembled a roster of 30 thrillers of the 1990s, touching on the many spindling sub-stratas of the form. They vary in budget, quality, and impact, but all show the fruits of a beautiful boom period in which, for better or worse, any old shit could get made. And we’re starting with a big ‘un - Basic Instinct.
Paul Verhoeven’s infamous hit is that most 1990s of films (and it’s about as 1990s a film as you can get, up there with, off the top of my head, Pulp Fiction and White Men Can’t Jump): an erotic thriller. The phrase alone is enough to give you goosebumps. It’s such a grubby idea that once felt somewhat legitimate - can you imagine telling someone you’re in the mood for an erotic thriller? Basic Instinct certainly fits the bill, though. Our very first scene is of the saucy, sexy nature. A prominent, wealthy man is peppered with an ice pick mid-coitus, and the finger of blame is soon pointed towards Catherine Tramell (Sharon Stone), novelist and casual boyfriend of the deceased. The icily beautiful Tramell soon bewitches the investigating officers, none more so than Nick Curran (Michael Douglas), a Cop On The Edge who doesn’t know whether to arrest Catherine or shag her, or both.
The first thing to note is that Basic Instinct is more famous for a single scene than the actual plot of the movie. The early interrogation in which Catherine crosses and uncrosses her legs sans underwear has been parodied and dissected, and has permeated into the greater pop cultural consciousness. Stone later said she was not made aware of the extent to which she’d be exposed, though considered it an effective choice on the part of Verhoeven. I think she’s right on the latter part - it sets a tone for both character and movie in record time - but it’s dodgy behaviour on the part of the filmmakers to say the least, and it’s not an isolated incident. Jeanne Tripplehorn was apparently not given prior warning as to the severity of a rape/sex scene between herself and Douglas.
As is indicated by the description of a “rape/sex” scene, this is the single most ill advised part of the film: Curran visits the apartment of his sometime-squeeze Dr Beth Garner (Tripplehorn). He forces himself on her while she noisily protests, but wouldn’t you know it: he’s so darn good that she eventually gets into the mood. It’s not a film for the prudish, with the consensual sex scenes luxuriating on Stone (and, fair warning, Douglas) for a long old time, but this one in particular wouldn’t fly nowadays and shouldn’t have in ‘92. It’s uncomfortable stuff, as is the picture’s idea of gay and bisexual women, all of whom are to varying degrees jealous and murderous. Hey, it was the ‘90s!
Coming off a successful string of pictures in the back half of the ‘80s, Michael Douglas was the marquee name at time of release, and he’s perfectly cast here. He’s a funny cat for a Hollywood megastar who’d be a leading man at least until the turn of the century. There’s an undeniable manic, even malevolent energy to Douglas, even when he’s not trying to be threatening or weird. It’s used to great effect here; you can absolutely believe Curran as a self destructive, troubled figure who’d get in over his head in this particularly salacious case (why his higher ups would keep him around is another question, but we’ll get to that). He’s reptilian and weird, but kind of cool, too; he has the ineffable confidence of a man who’s bonafide Hollywood royalty IRL, and he channels that into his character’s ability to weave through a murky, noirish world of crime without real consideration for the consequences of any of his actions.
Douglas felt that he needed a similarly weighty name in the opposite corner as “there’s going to be a lot of shit flying around,” and refused at first to test with the then-unknown Sharon Stone. With the greatest of respect to Mr Douglas, he really needn’t have been concerned; the moment Stone appears on screen, she’s the only thing any viewer’s going to be thinking about. It may be the single most instantly Star Making turn since John Travolta strutted through Brooklyn in Saturday Night Fever. You never want to go gushing over a performer’s looks, but it’s impossible not to here. Basic Instinct only functions if it’s believable that a whole city full of people would go doolally over this one possibly homicidal woman, and Stone makes it work. She’s icy and enigmatic, scary but at times sympathetic too. The more Douglas bloviates and gnaws scenery, the more Stone’s restraint and wry humour steals away scene after scene. “I don't want to be up there all by myself,” Douglas said. Brother, you barely needed to be there at all.
It’s fair to say the film is more interested in luxuriating in shocks and smut than it is telling a fully cohesive story. The whodunnit plot bounces around wildly and a lot of time is given over to Curran and Trammel carrying on a relationship while the former tells the latter he’s going to arrest her for one or more murders, to which she smiles mysteriously. The then-powerful screenwriter Joe Eszterhas left the project due to tinkering with his script that he couldn’t countenance, though Verhoeven eventually reverted to the original version. He’s good for a twist and a turn and can write some zingy dialogue, but no one comes across as remotely human, least of all Curran. The leaps the viewer is forced to take to accept that this guy would still have a job on the force after accidentally gunning down two tourists while gakked off his gourd, and then to keep working the case after it’s clear he’s gotten too close to the suspect and may have offed an Internal Affairs chap are pretty staggering.
There’s a desire to be Hitchcockian at the heart of Basic Instinct, but neither Verhoeven nor Eszterhas can muster Alfred’s restraint nor conjure the set pieces. Its key influence is Vertigo, but rather than tackle that masterpiece’s lofty themes of guilt and madness, it poses the question what if a really attractive woman liked to have sex and murder people? Trammel is a novelist whose crime stories then seem to come true IRL, but neither the characters nor the film seem to be able to decide whether that makes her a more or less likely suspect, and by the time she’s predicting deaths hours before they transpire, it’s all got a bit silly.
Still, though, there’s the ending. It is a fantastic ending, the only ending that makes sense, even if it doesn’t wrap anything up. After two hours of Paul & Joe pulling the rug from under us over and again in this twisty, tawdry tale, they finish off with a real money shot. It’s a final flourish that could probably be unpicked (pun not intended) quite easily, but serves as a shot of adrenaline just as you think the picture has run out of steam.
There’s plenty to nitpick and a fair bit of stuff one could genuinely object to, but it’s a time capsule thriller with real value in parts, most particularly the headline grabbing, unforgettable turn from Sharon Stone.
